Chapter 1 #2
My shoulder throbs when I move it the wrong way. The hit from last night wrecked me more than I wanted to admit. But pain is manageable. Pain means I’m still playing.
“Yo, Harrow,” Carter calls. “You getting that shoulder looked at, or are you just planning to suffer in silence as usual?”
“Mind your business.”
“Pretty sure your shoulder is everyone’s business when you can’t shoot straight.”
“I can shoot straight.”
“Sure you can.”
I don’t bother arguing.
I peel off my jersey, dragging it over my head, and let it drop to the floor. My skin’s still hot, sweat cooling too fast in the open air. Pads come next, then the rest, piece by piece until I’m down to compression shorts and nothing else.
Carter flops onto the bench across from me, groaning. “If he runs us like that again tomorrow, I’m faking an injury.”
“You already skate like you’re injured,” someone shoots back.
“Eat shit.”
I tune it out, reaching for my towel. That’s when the room shifts.
It’s subtle at first—conversation stuttering, a few heads turning, a pause that doesn’t belong in a space like this.
I glance up, and there she is. Joanna Williams walks into the locker room like she’s stepping onto a stage. Ms. Williams is the daughter of the Tigers’ biggest investor, and I think she’s trying to follow in daddy’s footsteps by being an absolute control freak.
She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t look uncomfortable. Just moves straight through a room full of half-dressed men like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Which, for her, I guess it is.
She’s dressed sharp—dark suit, heels that click against the floor, hair pulled back cleanly. Everything about her says control.
Her eyes move, though.
Not aimlessly.
Observing.
Assessing.
I watch her track across the room, taking in faces, bodies, presence. It’s not leering—it’s calculated. Like she’s building a chessboard in her head and we’re all just pieces she’s deciding how to use.
Carter straightens slightly without realizing it.
Atlas, of course, just lifts a hand. “Hey, Ms. Williams.”
She gives him a brief smile. Polite. Measured.
Her gaze slides past him and then lands on me.
Holds for a second longer than necessary.
I don’t react. Just meet her eyes, steady, waiting for whatever this is to end. She moves on after a few seconds.
The tension lingers anyway.
Coach steps in behind her a second later, clapping his hands once. “Alright, eyes up.”
A few guys scramble for towels. Others don’t bother.
“Ms. Williams is here to observe,” he says. “So try not to embarrass yourselves more than usual.”
A couple of laughs, but they’re tight. Joanna doesn’t speak. Just keeps watching.
I grab my shirt, dragging it over my head. The need to cover myself is suffocating. It’s something about the way she looks at people, like she’s trying to figure out how she can use us.
Joanna murmurs something into Coach’s ear and then walks into his office.
Coach juts his chin toward me. “Harrow. Connors. Office.”
Atlas perks up immediately. “What did we do?”
“Just move,” Coach says.
I push to my feet, grabbing a hoodie this time, and follow without a word. Atlas falls into step beside me, still damp from the shower.
“You think we’re getting heat for our interviews last night?” he asks.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Joanna Williams wouldn’t care about something as small as that.”
Atlas glances at me nervously.
Coach’s office is small, crammed with too much furniture. Joanna’s already inside, standing near the desk like she owns it.
She probably does.
Coach shuts the door behind us.
“Sit,” he says.
I stay standing.
Atlas drops into the chair, stretching out his long legs like he’s comfortable here.
Joanna looks between us.
Up close, her gaze is sharper. More deliberate.
“You two understand why you’re here?” she asks.
“Nope.” Atlas rubs the back of his neck. I catch a glimpse of his back tattoo as his shirt rides up.
Joanna looks at me, and I just shake my head.
Her lips curve slightly.
“Good,” she says. “Then I won’t waste time.” She steps closer, folding her arms. “This team needs attention,” she continues. “Not just on the ice. Off it.”
I already don’t like where this is going.
“You’re both highly marketable,” she says, her eyes flicking between us. “Individually. But together…”
A pause. Something clicks into place behind her expression. “…you could be something more.”
Atlas leans forward, interested. “Sorry, but I really have no idea what you’re trying to say, Ms. Williams.”
Joanna meets my eyes again. “We’d like you to present yourselves as a couple.”
Silence.
Then Atlas lets out a short laugh. “Wait…seriously?”
I don’t laugh.
I just stare at her.
Flat. Unimpressed.
“As a PR stunt. We’ve noticed that teams with openly gay players had a fifteen percent jump in ticket sales after those players came out.”
“But I’m not gay,” Atlas says.
Everyone knows I like my share of men and women; it’s not something I hide. But I don’t really want the whole world in my business like that.
“That’s alright.” Joanna smiles.
“Why us?” My voice sounds far away in my ears.
Joanna leans her hip against Coach’s desk, like the questions are exhausting her. “The fans already love your grumpy-sunshine dynamic. Also, you’re objectively the two most attractive players on the Tigers.”
So that’s what her assessing stare was about. I know I’m not ugly, but I definitely didn’t think I was handsome enough to be the NHL’s assigned whore.
“No,” I say firmly.
She doesn’t react.
“It would be a controlled arrangement,” she says smoothly. “Public appearances, social media, interviews. Boundaries clearly defined.”
“No,” I repeat.
Atlas glances at me, then back at her. “What do you mean by boundaries?”
I shoot him a look.
He shrugs. “What? I’m just asking questions.”
Joanna answers him anyway. “We won’t ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. Everything down to a casual handhold would be contractually agreed upon.”
I cross my arms. “I’m not going to make a spectacle of my personal life for publicity.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “There would be financial compensation.”
“I don’t care.”
“Significant financial compensation.”
“I still don’t?—”
She says the number.
Holy fuck.
It’s enough to erase things I haven’t said out loud in years.
Enough to make sure the past stays where it belongs.
Atlas sits up straighter. “For how long?”
“Three months minimum,” she says. “We can stage a breakup after that.”
Three months.
That’s nothing.
That’s everything.
I stare at the floor for a second, my jaw tight. If I did this...
But it’s just a performance. I’ve done worse for less.
“Do we have to, like…kiss and stuff?” Atlas asks, completely serious.
I close my eyes for a second.
Unbelievable.
Joanna’s expression doesn’t change. “Only if you both agree to it.”
Atlas hums, thinking.
I look at him. He looks back.
No hesitation. No fear. Just open curiosity.
Like this could be fun.
Like this won’t complicate everything.
“Yeah. Sure,” he says finally. “I’ll do it.”
Of course he will.
I drag a hand down my face. Every instinct I have is telling me to say no and walk out.
But that number…that number means I won’t owe anyone anything ever again.
Means no one gets to come knocking.
Means I don’t have to look over my shoulder.
I exhale slowly. “Three months,” I say. “That’s it.”
Joanna nods once. “Three months.”
I look at Atlas.
He smiles, easy and bright, like this is just a game.
Like we’re not about to make a huge mistake.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll do it.”